“You here to finish me off, Sweetheart?” she asked in a lightly accented whisper, barely audible over the rolling thunder as its grumbles dissipated and the patter of rain on the muddy ground.
There was no emotion in her voice, just as there was no life left in her pale blue eyes. No will to live. Even the chill of her pale flesh beneath his hands was able to pass through her clothing and his gloves, as though death was already claiming its next.
His hair, darker than the night sky between flashes of sizzling, white lightning, was sopping wet and escaping the braid he wore at the nape of his neck. Still, it couldn’t touch the darkness of the scowl that furrowed his brows over one, luminous amber eye, and the eye-patch he wore over the ruin on the right side of his face.
“You had that handled well enough on your own, I’d wager,” he said. His words were clipped, and the anger in them was like the first rush of desert heat when leaving the cooler air of mag-temp buildings.
Something fluttered briefly behind her eyes, which had tears running down both sides of her face, and he took in her disheveled appearance. Her wet, pale, ash blonde hair was pooling in the mud, which was also spattered along the back of her uniform. It was made of the typical material the Cynosures used: lightweight, deceptively strong, formfitting, and covering her from the top of her neck to the top of her boots. It would deflect everything from knives to the intense rays of the harsh sun that beat down mercilessly over Heartland. However, she was missing the head gear for it: a low-hanging, pointed hood to shade the eyes, and a fitted face mask to protect the mouth and nose from dust and dirt kicked up by the desert winds. The fashion for kertilla varied between civilian men and women, but the Cynosures–soldiers of Heartland–all wore the same, simple type.
It had been months before Fyna had relented and taken her kertilla off, stating it was helpful even on his ship out on the vast oceans. Graeym couldn’t imagine how anything so suffocating, not to mention something that limited your vision to such a degree, could be helpful. But it hadn’t hurt anything, so he’d just shrugged it off, and silently admired the way the sun tanned Fyna’s flawless skin as she wore the kertilla less and less.
Grief raked through his chest like the claws of the sea-dwelling saerens, who dragged sailors to their blissful deaths in the depths. He clamped down on the emotion by clenching his jaw, swallowing hard, and cursing Fyna and her final request of him.
With her memory as fresh in his mind as the first breeze after a sea storm, he saw the ghost of Fyna in her younger sister’s features. The delicate brows, elegant nose, and angelic lips were all a few years removed from the life Fyna had crafted at sea with Graeym.
But this was not Fyna, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep that rooted firmly in his mind.
“Your sister sent me,” he said, his words less angry and more final, like the throwing down of a gauntlet.
When she jerked in shock at his proclamation, he gripped her wrists tighter, and shifted his body weight to prepare for her to try and buck him off. Mostly because her service weapon was scant inches from her hands, which were now balled into fists ready to fly at his refined nose or strong jaw. Her lips curled into a snarl, her nostrils flared, and she did indeed try to buck him off.
Graeym maintained a calm facade, but his patience for her behavior was wearing thin, and fast. It had never been his strong suit, and his crew–well, his former crew, anyway–knew the signs for when their behavior was intolerable for their Captain.
Unfortunately for Edlyn, she didn’t know, and Graeym lost his cool.
“Stop! Or so help me, Enos, I will finish what you started!” he barked at her, a mere inch from her face, his words ending in a growl.
She froze, but instead of being in fear for her life her eyes narrowed. “You are that filthy pirate that killed my sister,” she hissed.
He’d expected it; the Cynosures would have sown their own story of how the magus deserter had perished. It still made him want to scream wordlessly at Edlyn until his throat was raw. To vent at the only person on the other ‘side’ he had access to.
Fyna’s final words came to him, like a murmur amidst the howling winds of the hurricane of his agony; “Find my sister–Edlyn. Tell her I love her. Tell her…I’m sorry, but that I had to do it. Please, Graeym.”
Like a fool, he’d agreed, and held her till she passed. The attack orchestrated by the Cynosures had been swift and deadly, taking Fyna and most of his crew. Of course, the Cynosures had used actual pirates to take down the Abyssian sailors, and Abyssia–not wanting war with the Heartlanders–denounced Graeym and his crew. Calling them traitors and murderous pirates. Because, what were a few sailors in the grand scheme of peace?
Graeym, grievously injured and grieving, had been carried off by his few remaining loyal crew to a healer. He was still getting used to the change in depth perception that losing his right eye had caused, and his numerous, newly healed scars littering his body were still tender to the touch.
“I am no pirate, but if that is what you would prefer to believe, kill me now. It will save me the trouble of dealing with you.” He was only half-serious, of course. He also left out the part where he’d told his men waiting for him just over the crest of the hill, that if she did manage to kill him, to kill her in turn.
It would have been simpler for them all if she’d just agreed and shot him. Life was anything but simple, however.
At his words, something uneasy passed through her expression, followed quickly by her wiping her face clean of any emotion, and looking down and away. “My sister was no fool, pirate,” she spat the word at him like venom, trying to deflect his attention to her guilt, “and she did not trust easily. I will listen to your tale, but if I do not believe you, I will kill as as surely as the sun will rise.”
“Fair enough, but just so we are clear: I am armed, and will not hesitate to kill you should you reach for your weapon. I am here as a favor to Fyna, nothing more. I can do this just as easily with you dead as I can with you alive.”
Her eyes met his, fluttering to an all-over pale gray before fading back to their usual blue, and then she raised a single brow. “That is a lie.”
He growled, and silently spat another curse at Fyna. “You are an Axiom. A truth-sayer.”
She nodded, and her body relaxed beneath his grip. “I do not have to use my powers so overtly, as I just did. Most of the time I can get a read, or ‘feeling’, without doing so. However, I wanted you to know before we spoke.”
“Why? Wouldn’t you have more to gain by not telling me?”
“Because I do not lie knowingly, either directly or by omission. Not telling you before we spoke would have too much flavor of a lie for my comfort.” Then she looked away again, squirming just a hair in his grip as though uncomfortable with what she was about to say. “You are not the first to arouse my suspicion in regards to the means of my sister’s death,” she admitted. “Can I get up now?” she asked, tone as neutral as she could manage.
He hesitated a moment, eye flicking to her weapon, but released her and backed away quickly to avoid an attack, hand going to his right hip but not drawing his own weapon. Not yet.
She rose slowly, keeping her hands away from the weapon. When she stood, she pushed her mud-clumped hair back over her shoulder. The rain was still falling, but it was a warm, summer rain, common at the bottom of the mountainous border between Heartland and Abyssia. So while they were wet, they were not chilled.
Edlyn motioned to the closest crop of rocks, a couple of which were the perfect distance for two not-quite-allies to converse, and the two made their cautious ways over and sat down.
Graeym told Edlyn all that he knew, all that Fyna had suspected, and why she’d deserted and started to work for the Abyssia, whose strength came from the ocean. Corruption was at the heart of Heartland, and a country who traded heavily with Abyssia for resources not found in the desert could be swayed toward better treatment of its people if pressured with losing said resources. What was in it for Abyssia? The influx of Heartland refugees would would slow in the face of better conditions at home, or that was the hope.
Fyna had never made it that far, however, only having spoken with Graeym’s upper command once. She’d been placed on his ship in the hope that she’d be safe as far from Heartland’s desert as they could get–out on the ocean. There was a lot they didn’t know, but with Edlyn’s help, maybe Graeym could carry out the vision for a better future for her people that Fyna had painted for Graeym.
Well, that would be a positive byproduct of him getting his revenge for them killing a woman he’d grown to love, but who he’d never had the courage to tell. He left that part out.
“So, are you in?” he asked.
She considered his words, the silence extending between them as the final drops of rain fell from the sky. The gray clouds didn’t part and the sun didn’t shine down on them in a sign from Fyras, god of fortune, that their path was luck-laden, but Graeym had never put much stock in fortune or luck. He usually made-do with sheer willpower alone.
“Yes. I will see this path to its end, whatever that may be,” she said, and nodded.
He nodded in return, and they both stood to leave. As a sign of their agreement, he walked over, picked up her weapon, and handed it to her butt first. She’d extended the first token of trust by not grabbing it and trying to kill him, even though he told her he was armed, and now it was his turn.
As she took it and holstered it, her outfit was still incomplete. There was something that he’d wondered from the moment he found her abandoned kertilla at the bottom of the hill, followed by her on the top of the hill, kneeling, gun pointed toward her head.
“Why did you take your kertilla off? Fyna wore hers more than I figured must have been comfortable.”
She glanced at him, then toward the sky, and a small, sad smile graced her lips. “I’d never felt the rain on my face before, and I guess I wanted to know what it was like before I died,” she said.
He took a deep breath, and dipped his head once, in understanding.
Maybe she was more like Fyna than he’d first thought.