Chapter Text
Gilda Lavanne loved the sea.
"To the Sirens first shalt thou come, who beguile all men whosoever come to them."
When she was a girl, her mother, her tutors, and nearly everyone else who had ever borne the inconvenience of trying to mold her into the lady she needed to be had, at one point or another, begged, pleaded, scolded, or screamed at her to pay less attention to the ocean. She spent every spare moment, hour after stolen hour, gazing at the horizon, sneaking away to the beachside caves, or ordering servants who couldn't afford or didn't dare to defy her to bring her on errands and explorative excursions to the seaports. When her parents were gone, the sea had opened its arms to her, protected her. When her shaky crew first set sail it had looked after each of her girls in turn. Gilda Lavanne adored the sea.
"The Sirens beguile him with their clear-toned song, as they sit in a meadow, and about them is a great heap of bones of mouldering men."
To her, then, it was a sign of respect to not question some of the things about the ocean which she knew well enough were unknowable. It was none of her business to understand exactly what happened to every sailor who went missing or turned up mad, or to explain every strange, hulking shadow in the moonlight, or to comprehend the incomprehensible mysteries the vastness offered. She never let her girls sit around scaring themselves with tall tales while they were on the water, and if anyone saw anything particularly strange, they dealt with it as it came. Anytime they collected a new crew member, she made sure to warn her sternly: keep the mind and eye ahead, don't heed everything that beckons from the shadows.
She never looked behind even once when she set out to sail. The ink-black waves would swallow her and scatter her bones in oblivion one day, and she knew that when that day came she would remember the land no more than it would remember her.
"But if thou thyself hast a will to listen, let them bind thee in the swift ship hand and foot upright in the step of the mast, and let the ropes be made fast at the ends to the mast itself, that with delight thou mayest listen to the voice of the Sirens. And if thou shalt implore and bid thy comrades to loose thee, then let them bind thee with yet more bonds."
If you weren’t careful, he’d steal your heart right away, the dashing young commander. Everyone said so; there was just something about him. Tyrian Persimmon. It was rare that Edwin had seen anyone walk away from meeting him without a flush and a sudden inclination to give him anything he asked for. At less than 30 years old he was already the talk of the entire coast; he’d shot through the ranks of the royal navy with a speed that would have been scandalous for a less remarkable man, but Tyrian had a way with people that made him untouchable. No one seemed to even consider speaking ill of him. The lowest of his subordinates sang his praises as loudly as his business partners and with as much admiration as any highborn lady who’d been felled by his charm. Even today, with several years of life between them, Edwin couldn’t suppress the instinctive jump in his heart when he saw Tyrian Persimmon.
Even more handsome now than he was then, God damn me . The gracefully disheveled beauty Edwin remembered from Tyrian's younger years had been rapidly sea-hardened and intensified into something more controlled. Watching him now was like watching the way the waves broke against the impassive cliffs of the shoreline. When their eyes met Edwin’s stomach dropped at the sudden onslaught of memories.
Edwin had never known what to make of he and Tyrian’s relationship during their time at the academy. They hadn’t been friends, not quite; Tyrian was too cold and too driven for friends. They certainly weren't lovers, either, much as Edwin had liked to savor the secret thought that the other man might deign to see him that way. Tyrian's uncannily grey eyes were always fixed on the horizon. Even when they worked together, even when they fought, even on the heart-pounding nights Tyrian would fuck him and leave him a shuddering wreck, nothing between them seemed to connect in any way Edwin understood. Tyrian frightened him, sometimes–especially then. Still, no matter Tyrian's harshness or surly moods they had never been on explicitly ill terms, and Edwin hoped they’d stay that way. He smiled to himself. The weather was fair, life was well. He and Penelope were only stopping in Plymouth for a few days, and it was exciting to see Tyrian again now that they’d both moved up in the world. They greeted each other politely. He introduced him to his fianceé and blew through all the polite, congenial formalities one was supposed to greet a former classmate with. Tyrian responded in kind with all the correct words. It was, by every technical definition, a good-natured meeting of equals. Even so, Edwin walked away with disquiet in his heart. His mind wandered miles away as he and Penelope made their way back to the inn.
“He’s a bit blunt, but terribly handsome! Look at you, even you’re blushing!” Edwin felt his face burn all the more at Penelope’s teasing. He opened his mouth to laugh her off, but couldn’t work any words past his discomfort.
Was it because of how he looked at Penelope? Surely not. Edwin was never the jealous type, or so he told himself. Of course Tyrian had been a little flirtatious towards her, but in all the years Edwin had known him he’d never addressed a lady otherwise. He never even had to flash his crooked smile to set everyone in a 10-mile radius blushing. Edwin knew that well enough. He flinched at the split-second thought that he’d let Tyrian throw him off balance for more…personal reasons. He was engaged, for god’s sake, moving on with his life. The way Tyrian seemed to seep under his skin in seconds wasn’t a line of thought he could afford to entertain. He shook himself. It's just been a long time, that's all. Everything was fine, and why should it not be?
That night Edwin slept more soundly than he had in years. The cacophony of screams and bells from the shore which tore that night in half never reached his ears. Dreams of wavy black hair and touches that took his breath away drowned out anything that could have roused him.
People love a good panic, Luminous thought grimly as he pushed through the afternoon crowd to the market. The gruesome murder of some sea captain—found strangled to death with his heart torn out overnight—had caused quite the stir this morning. Most of the hubbub was because it was not the first murder of its kind; a few months earlier another body had been found in a similar state, and apparently (or so Luminous’ grizzled old captain had told him) at least one more such death could be found if one dug through reports from the past decade. It was a disgusting business. Luminous hated the way the crowd raved over the bloody details. It wasn't decent to talk like that when some poor man was dead. Some people were even beginning to spin ridiculous claims about hauntings, unnatural magic, and (most frequently, as far as he could overhear) sea monsters. Winged sea monsters that lured sailors like sirens then stole the hearts of their victims. It made Luminous' skin crawl. In his frank opinion, the world (and the ocean, for that matter) was dangerous enough without conjuring mystical creatures to make it more frightening. He shook off the frazzled crowd and focused on his errands. There wasn't time for that sort of nonsense, not today. It was his first day back to town, and despite the ominous beginnings of this visit, he was determined to make the most of it. By the time he made his way home, the sun was beginning to set and he was pleasantly sore and drowsy. He was eager to sit down to dinner; his father’s cook was, in Luminous’ humble opinion, the best in the world, and he dearly missed her cooking when he was away. He could already smell some sort of delightful roast wafting through the hall.
Sure enough, dinner was already laid out when he entered the dining room. He swung into the room with a flourish. “Father! How have you been? Missing me yet? How’s—” He paused, noting an unfamiliar face at the table; a young man, maybe a couple years his senior. He had the telltale tan of a seasoned sailor, but his carefully plaited hair and elegant dress belied nobility. Luminous checked himself and bowed politely. “Beg pardon! I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out a hand to shake, “Luminous Red Benedict.”
The other man stood to shake his hand and nodded methodically, with a smile so even and measured it could’ve been cut in his face with a knife. “Tyrian Persimmon.”
Tyrian Persimmon . Luminous knew he’d heard the name before. He flipped mentally through a slideshow of local nobility and important military commanders in the area, but didn’t make it far before his father answered the question for him.
"Tyrian is the most promising commander the royal navy has seen in years! I couldn't let him pass rough town without having him at my table."
Tyrian smiled another knife-edge smile. "Well, I'm endlessly thankful for your generosity."
A shiver ran down Luminous' spine as he met Persimmon's grey eyes. Something about him was unnerving. It wasn't anything Luminous could pinpoint, but the careful poise and the slow tilt of his head made Luminous' chest prickle. The man’s low, pleasant voice mingled with the drone of polite business conversation and lulled Luminous into a strange, almost drunken state despite the lack of wine at the table. Absently, he found himself unable to look at anything or anyone else. He blinked and realized everyone was rising from dinner.
“Well, I wish you a safe voyage and a prosperous month, Commander Persimmon,” Luminous’ father chortled amicably. “We will have to have you call on us again sometime!”
“It would be my pleasure, of course." He smiled and bowed gracefully. "It's been lovely to meet you and your family."
Luminous felt an inexorable pull as Persimmon swept out of the door. He made some excuses to his father, claiming he’d promised to meet some friends for drinks tonight, and left the house aimlessly save for the guiding beacon of what he knew was Persimmon’s coach making its way into town. He couldn't gather his thoughts even enough to consider if he had any reason to be doing this. He simply walked, and knew the direction he was supposed to be moving. The twilight bustle of the streets swallowed them both, and he wondered absently what part of town this was.
A shrill voice started him out of his strange trance. A girl, perhaps no older than 10 or 11, hurled out of an alley with a terrified shout and crashed painfully into a stack of barrels on the corner. Luminous rushed to help her up. "Oh, good god, miss, are you alright? That was a terrible fall."
The girl's chest heaved. She squeezed his arm with a strength he would've never expected from a child her size. As soon as she was on her feet she moved to bolt again, looking around wildly. "Is it coming? Did you see it?"
Luminous was perplexed. "What? Is someone after you?"
She shook her head earnestly. "No, I-I saw…" she craned her neck to scrutinize the alley again, "Sir, there's a bloody monster by the water! I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Oh–" Luminous never put much stock in seaside monster stories, but he didn't doubt the girl's sincerity; she was terrified. He could feel her trembling. Clearly something had happened. You could never be too careful with strange murders cropping up, after all. He paused to consider his options. "Here, look, I'll investigate it for you. Take this," He gave the child a generous stack of coins, "and go down to that bakery, there on the corner. Get anything you like and wait for me; I'll take care of your monster and see that you get home safely."
She nodded shakily. He watched her go, then moved around the corner with a deep breath, preparing himself for an encounter with a feral dog, or perhaps some disgusting drunk ruffian. Absently, he wished for once that he carried a weapon more consistently, but to his bewilderment his caution was unfounded. Surveying the area by the docks in the low light revealed nothing and no-one. He shook his head. Whatever or whoever the girl had seen, it was long gone by now. Suddenly tired, he wondered why he’d felt the need to go out tonight at all. He’d had a long week’s travel, and was ready to sleep in a real bed for once. After returning to reassure the girl in the bakery that there was nothing lurking in the shadows and making sure she got home safely, he turned back towards his father’s house. The shadows were a bit too thick for comfort tonight, anyway.
This night, the last night they’d be in Plymouth, was beautiful. Shockingly, dizzyingly beautiful. Edwin leaned against the dock and let the gentle sound of the pitch-black waves envelop his drink-dulled senses. He should've gone back to the inn hours ago, but his mind hadn't quieted. Something about this moment–being here, in Plymouth, on the edge of happiness with Penelope, overwhelmed by the confused nostalgia of his reunion with Tyrian–was too intoxicating. Tomorrow the moment would pass, but for reasons he couldn't quite understand, he felt driven to savor it. The discomfort Tyrian instilled in him the day before had melted into anticipation of next time they'd meet. He wondered if he'd ever felt this happy before.
A phosphorescent glimmer in the darkness startled him out of his pleasant buzz. At first, he thought it was just a reflection, but as he stared deeper into the waves the dimly glowing points seemed to sharpen and a new shape began to loom around them. He shuddered and rubbed his eyes. I must be more tired and drunk than I realized, he thought wryly. It wouldn't be the first time he'd let shadows get the best of his nerves. He turned to head back to the inn.
A sound–a horrible, low, creaking sound, like an ice pick being driven into his skull–rattled in Edwin's ear. Hot breath that stank of fresh blood and sea salt replaced the night breeze. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Something sharp dug into his arm. Before he could bite back a scream his head struck the damp boards and he was pinned to the ground by a merciless weight on his chest. He screwed his eyes shut tightly in anticipation of the blow that would crush his ribcage, but instead he was dragged upright, flung backwards through a stack of crates, and sent careening into the sea. In the split second he had to look before he struck the freezing water, he saw nothing but massive wings blotting out the moonlight.
The only reason Edwin woke up at all, hours later, was that he was shivering so hard that he could barely breathe. Every one of his senses screamed, and for an agonizing moment he couldn’t move at all. Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on damp sand under a dock. Through the slats of wood above him he could tell that the sun was already high in the sky. The air was warm, but his waterlogged clothes had him freezing like nothing he’d ever felt. The only physical sensations he was aware of besides the biting cold were a horrible ache in his arm and another increasingly sharp and persistent pain in his side, which he had to assume was something he’d broken when he…fell? Was thrown?
He tried to search his memory piece-by-piece for what had happeend the night before, but the images in his mind were impossible to quantify. He had no idea what he’d seen, or what had attacked him, or how he’d gotten to shore at all. He’d been lying here for hours, clearly…with a start, he realized that it had to already be nearly noon.
Oh, no.
They were set to embark for London just after breakfast. He tried, slowly, to sit up. He couldn’t waste any time; if anyone got wind that Lady Penelope’s fiancé had delayed their journey by spending the morning knocked out cold on a beach her reputation could suffer terribly. He shuddered and dragged himself upright. If he could get as far as the inn, he could get as far as the ship. He glanced at the port, mercifully visible from his vantage point. One ship was missing; one he knew like the back of his hand. His heart sank.
Tyrian…
Despite whatever disaster he’d gotten himself into the night before, he’d been entertaining a sliver of hope that he’d be able to see Tyrian again just once before they went their separate ways again. He was too tired and pained to fend off the disappointment as he limped back towards the inn. It was strangely quiet by the time he struggled his way inside; the expected bustle of servants and sailors was completely absent, and the woman at the bar was reading with her legs propped on the ledge unceremoniously.
“Excuse me,” he winced at the spike of pain talking caused.
She looked him up and down with blatant incredulity. “Sir? Can I help you?”
He tried to stand upright, as if that would compensate for being visibly drenched, bruised, and covered in sand. “My name is Colonel Edwin Grahm. My fianceé and several of our comrades have been staying at your inn these past days—” He tried to catch his breath again, “—and I need to know if they’ve departed yet. It’s Grahm, Edw—”
“Oh that lot?” The woman interrupted nonchalantly, “They left hours ago. Seemed awful hurried, too. Must’ve had to move on without you. Busy schedules at this port sometimes, you know. If you’ll…uh…” She trailed off and stared at him flatly for a moment, "Look, if you’ll pardon me, sir, you don’t exactly look like you’re in any state to be traveling, anyway. Been a rather…rough night for you, by the looks of it. Drink a bit too deep, eh?”
Edwin’s head spun. “But…the ship is still there, the Daisy? We were set to sail to London on the Daisy.”
She shrugged again. “Schedules change all the time. Maybe they took another boat. I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you; my job’s just to check people in and out and make sure they pay up when they go.”
Scenarios raced through his mind. They’d already gone, and the only ship that had departed this morning was…he stopped short. “Thank you. Have a good morning.” He nodded to the woman and turned to leave as quickly as his aching limbs would allow to block the prickle of frustrated tears in his eyes.
Tyrian.
Perhaps this fortnight of travel had been too long. Penelope had spent most of it exhausted, confused, and annoyed. She’d never expected the delays, or the sea battle, or…
Penelope hadn't missed Edwin during the voyage, and now, feeling her face burn under the touch of Tyrian Persimmon’s strong, scarred hands, she missed him even less. She felt some guilt for her wandering eye, but hearing Edwin had been caught up in some sort of disgraceful brawl–right before their voyage, no less–had stung her with a vicious doubt. Perhaps she'd misjudged Edwin's character. Perhaps their match was too rushed, and she shouldn't have accepted his impulsive proposal. Commander Persimmon, with his languid movements and snake-strike gaze, was beckoning her towards his bed. Perhaps this was meant to happen all along, in some way. Perhaps when they got back she would call things off with Edwin, and it would all be alright. Perhaps, perhaps…the glare of the candles in the commander's cabin fragmented her thoughts.
There was nothing in the sudden change in Persimmon's demeanor that suggested to Penelope that he should be trusted. Nothing in the world that should lead a lady of polite society to betray herself with him. She cursed herself for having ever indulged the urge to look for him tonight at all. Surely, surely this couldn’t be the right choice. And yet…
“Lady Penelope.” It was a command, and not a request. His arm locked around her waist before she could protest. She lost any thought of wanting anything else. She took his hand, let it guide her to the bed, press her into it, undo her dress…
There was something strange about this man. Not strange in his manner, though it was remarkable, or in his actions, though they were bold. Looking into his eyes was hard. Perhaps it would have been hard for anyone in her position, but there was something wrong there. Something twisting behind his pupils. His hands felt far too sharp, his body’s balance too alien. As his fingers none-too-gently moved up her thighs and held her wrists above her head she was reminded of the time her father let her hold his hunting falcon and it missed the glove when it landed on her arm, gripping too hard and drawing blood.
Who is Tyrian Persimmon?
He was not tender. He laid her bare in the candlelight of the cabin and forced obscenities from her lips she was horrified to find herself uttering. When she was reduced to nothing he left her to collect herself alone.
She couldn’t quantify the way it felt to be with him with anything else she’d ever felt; Edwin’s gentle, distracted touches had never been like this. Not so terrifying, so alien, so overwhelming. Falling asleep should have been impossible, but when she did she dreamed of black wings rending the sky and a falcon’s talons around her throat.
"And they raised their clear-toned song: "'come hither, as thou farest…stay thy ship that thou mayest listen.”