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Post by Rikku on Oct 24, 2010 22:15:17 GMT -5
Guess who gets a massive backstory written when I was bored? =D Hush gets a massive backstory written when I was bored! So, uh. Here you go, if you want to read it. ^_^ I could do it better, but this is, like, the third time I started it and seemed to fit what I was going for best so I'm probably gonna stop now. Got kind of tired of it near the end, so there's probably mistakes and suchlike. But good practice for NaNo, I guess. ... So enjoy! =D It was quiet here, and Nikolas liked that. He was a quiet sort of person himself – the wind that whispered ‘midst the fennel barely ruffled his blondish hair, and his footfalls were as soft as a thief’s. They always had been.
He sat by his basket, working. It wasn’t a task that he needed to give much mind to – touch was enough to sort the rags according to size and fabric and such, and he’d been a ragman long enough to be able to rip them without paying that much mind either. It fitted with the rhythm of these hills, somehow, the gulls wheeling and squawking, the fennel and tussock swaying, the distant waves rumbling back and forth in moon-mad tides. He felt like he fitted up here, like he didn’t fit down below in Featherport, with its faded garish houses and busy streets that smelt of fish. Featherport was home, too, of course. But this was more home, up here on the hills; and anyway, he could watch the sun shine off the garish roofs from up here if he had a mind to, watch the busy ant-sized townfolk bustle about their business.
Today he had a mind to, and he didn’t notice someone else was there until she said from behind him, very seriously, “BOO.”
He jolted forward, rags spilling across the rough grass in a rough riot of colour. By the time he turned to face her, though, he’d calmed himself from the surprise, and could meet her eyes squarely.
She was a little shorter than he, with long dark hair that was tumbled from the wind, and a crinkled sort of smile. Beautiful, in the way such things are normally measured; certainly beautiful by the standards of Featherport, which was smallish, as towns go.
“Hullo,” said Nikolas, for lack of anything else to say.
“Did I startle you?” she said, eyes wide.
“You intended to?”
She paused, then gave a wicked smile and nodded.
“Then I was startled. Shocked, even. Bewildered. Flamboozled. Flabbergasted. You,” he assured her, seriously, “flabbered my gast.”
“Oh?”
“Thoroughly.”
“Well. That’s good.”
“I should hope I at least have the manners to be startled when a lady wishes me to be,” Nikolas said cheerfully. “Though I’m all wilds-roughened right now, from being on these here hills.”
“Why are you, by the way?”
“On the hills?” He considered. “I like the quiet.”
She nodded. “I thought that might be it. You seem a quiet sort of person. Intense, though.”
“Aye?” he said, a little startled, but not wishing to show it – as she didn’t seem to want him to be, this time.
“It’s your eyes, I think. They burn.”
“My eyes,” Nikolas pointed out mildly, “are blue.”
“Yes. And they burn bluely. Like cobalt.”
“… The pigment? Pigments don’t burn.”
She waved that away impatiently. “You are wilds-roughened indeed, sir ragman,” she declared. “You have not asked me my name, nor my business on these emerald hills.”
“’tis hardly courtly to ask a name without giving one; I’m Nikolas.” He glanced sideways briefly. The wind had taken most of his rags by now, and scattered them joyously over quite a distance. At least Featherport folk liked colour and lots of it – the cloth stood out against the green and brown tolerably well. “And what might be your name, and your business on these emerald hills?”
“May!” She waved a small sickle. “Here to gather fennel.”
He nodded. “Maybe here to gather fennel?” he said politely. “Do you wish me to guess your business, then? If you disguise it in potentialities so?”
May frowned at him, clearly exasperated. “Nonono, my name is—” She paused, because he was smiling a little. Paused a moment or two more, then laughed, in a puzzled sort of way. “Your sense of humour surpasses strange, Nikolas.”
“I’m told this often.” He was only half paying attention to the words – quarter of his mind was watching the rags tumble across the hill and wondering exactly how many hours it would take to find them all and clean them of any stains. The remaining part of his attention was watching, appreciatively, how the wind flattened May’s otherwise fairly modest clothes against her, showing her shape. It was a fairly pleasant shape.
He decided he’d win her, then. Not just court her – win. Nikolas seldom wanted anything much, but when he did, he got it, or died in the attempt. So far, obviously, he hadn’t had to resort to the whole dying thing. He wouldn’t this time, either.
“So, lady May,” he said, drawing his attention back, “would you care to lend me your aid?” He gave his smile. It wasn’t a particularly charming smile, not the kind of smile that melted hearts and purses, but it had a kind of grave, solemn quality to it that was, in its own way, endearing. It had worked well for him in the past.
She raised her eyebrows. “On what, sir Nikolas?”
“As this ragged chaos is your fault entirely,” he said, waving towards the rag-strewn landscape, “I find it only fair you help amend it.” He offered her his hand.
She eyed it, and then him, and then smiled. Her smile had a much more conventional charm. “That seems fair,” she admitted, and took his hand.
*
It was far from a whirlwind romance. A gentle zephyr, mostly, with gale-like tendencies at times. Things went quickly all the same, and within eight months they were engaged to be married. Nikolas was fairly pleased with this. May busily told all her friends that she was ecstatic.
Nikolas didn’t have much in the way of a fortune, but he was fairly comfortably well-off, and showed a stolid determination and willingness to work that endeared him to May’s parents. Financially, at least. There was something about him that disconcerted them - though, if asked, they wouldn’t be able to say much more than that he had ‘a kind of intensity’, and wouldn’t have been able to say why, exactly, this was a bad thing.
May’s brother took to him immediately. He was a sailor, Archer by name, slighter than a sailor should be, with all of his sister’s looks and then some. Even when he was relaxed he was restless, always shifting from one foot to the other or tapping his fingers against the table. Maybe that was why none of the girls who swooned over his eyes (as brown and bright as buttons, they said) or wiry muscled frame had been able to capture his attention for long – he yearned always to be moving, never to be still.
Somehow this suited Nikolas fine, and, when Archer was in port, they took to spending much of their time together. Archer, who was as fiercely protective as all older brothers are, was delighted to have found so suitable and kind-hearted a match for his sister, and Nikolas was happy to have found so suitable a friend. Somehow, his calm quiet and Archer’s restless energy endeared them to each other, and they became a common sight in Featherport’s good-quality taverns, and sometimes in the not so good ones.
“It’s only a shame that you don’t have a sister, Nik,” Archer said, topping up their beers. He liked to do that, because it meant he could experiment – from how high up could you pour without risk of spillage? How could you make the most foam? You could tell how long they’d been in the tavern by how skilled or not skilled his pouring was, and right now quite a lot of beer was being splashed uselessly onto the bar.
“How so?” said Nikolas, snatching his glass before Archer could work further mischief to it.
“Well,” Archer said, sliding onto the stool next to him – though his foot still jittered, restlessly. “Then you could marry mine, and I could marry yours, and we’d both have a bargain.”
Nikolas snorted. “Marriage is hardly a trade, Arch.”
“Still, though,” said Archer cheerfully, and winked at him. “If your sister had half your looks, I’d consider it a fair one.”
Nikolas found himself smiling, and drained his glass to hide it.
It was a sunny, happy time, and his lazy days out on the hills had better weather than they ever had, as though even Bless wanted to give him happiness. Which was far from unheard of, one had to admit. They were many folk stories about Bless directly interfering with people’s lives – giving them glorious gowns, and witched jewellery with powers of protection, and suchlike.
Bless or no Bless, it couldn’t last.
Nikolas and May were set to be wed in winter, and that summer May grew suddenly insistent. They could have it sooner, couldn’t they? After all, it wouldn’t be any trouble, not any real trouble. And she couldn’t wait to be married to him, couldn’t stand the waiting!
The fondness was real, Nikolas knew, but there was something else hiding behind it, an urgency that puzzled him. He refused her – in a kindly way, but it was refusal all the same, and she grew sullen and snappish.
Then one autumn day Archer came storming up to him and punched him solidly, sending him reeling more from surprise than pain.
They were in a fairly busy place – Nikolas had been picking up some tattered dresses to be torn for rags – but it was rapidly becoming busier, with people drifting over towards them, pointing, whispering. Not whispering very quietly, but at least they made an effort. Featherfolk loved excitement, and two well-known friends scuffling was certainly that. The story was passed from the people at the front to other people, and theories and suggestions were cheerfully discussed, and that drew more people …
Nikolas, who normally would’ve been agonised by this, was too busy staring at Archer. “Arch?” he said slowly, wiping the blood from his mouth. “What did I do?”
“Cursin’ fool! You know what you cursin’ did!” Archer grabbed a handful of collar, so he could glare at him from closer. Nikolas had never seen his bright eyes so angry. “You know what you did to my sister!”
Nikolas stared at him, then jerked his head in the direction of the nearest alley. Archer looked to be on the point of snarling; then he glanced around, saw the crowd, sighed. They went into the alley.
“Archer,” said Nikolas, his natural quiet made stronger by his distress, so he had to fight to be heard. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about!” snapped Archer.
“Let’s assume that I don’t,” Nikolas suggested.
Archer glared at him. Hissed. Clenched his hands into fists. Said, through clenched teeth, “My sister has … she’s … May’s gotten herself in a family way, brother. Care to explain that?”
Nikolas stared at him. “But that’s …”
“Impossible?” Archer ran his hand through his hair, distractedly. It was already distinctly tousled. “I thought so too.” Then, quieter: “I thought better of you.”
“Plainly not impossible,” Nikolas said, “or no one would’ve been born. But I don’t … I don’t see how …” He was lost for words, stammering like a fool. This wasn’t like him at all. But then, rage wasn’t very much like Archer.
“You don’t see how?” Archer raised a brow at him. “You’re telling me you’ve never tumbled my sister?”
Nikolas flushed. “I,” he said, stiffly, “would not even consider the idea of—”
Archer punched him again, in the stomach, hard enough to wind him. Then he slammed him against the wall of the alley, hard, and held him there. Nikolas didn’t bother to struggle; he knew Archer was stronger than he looked, knew that he had to be, in his line of work.
Nikolas grunted. His mouth had started bleeding again, he noticed. “Archer—” he said, trying to be the calm one here.
Archer headbutted him, sending a lance of pain through his nose. Nikolas cursed. “Fine!” he snarled. “I did, of course I did - we were always careful, you bloody fool! There are potions, herbs – do you really think I’d not be careful? Am I ever? You know me! Cursin’ think!”
Archer stared at him. He released his grip and took a step back, then another. He bit his lip. “But …” he said slowly. “But that means …”
“It explains why she was so eager, at least,” Nikolas said tiredly. His nose hurt. “Have you noticed any gentleman callers? Anyone courting her other than me?”
Archer shrugged. “I’ve been spending more time with you than with her, lately. When I’m in port at all. No.” He was hopping from foot to foot, tapping his fingers against his thighs, twiching his shoulders, glancing around. Nikolas resisted the urge to punch him in return, though the idea of making him stand still was enough to make it tempting. “No. But she … she has been staring at the sea a lot? I think. I mean, you know May, you know she – hills better, always has, liked them, I mean, of course she liked how the wind could smell of fennel one minute and salt the next but she always preferred, I mean, right next to the ocean, can’t help staring at it, I suppose, but she never, I mean, never this much, so I can’t help thinking, I mean, you know, the thing with oceans is that people, y’know, people … how could she … I mean, she always liked the smell of fennel, not salt. Never salt.”
He was babbling. “Archer,” Nikolas said, gently.
Archer stared at him with agonised eyes. “She’s my sister.”
Nikolas considered resting his hand on his shoulder, but thought it unwise – it might just anger him anew, and besides, he was all twitchy and restless, touching him wouldn’t help. A calming influence might be more useful, and Nikolas had always been the calm one. “The ocean?” he said, thinking out loud. “A sailor, then. Someone who was in port for a week or two – long enough to make her love him – and then left.”
Archer nodded. “But how do we find out who?” he said, harshly. The new sharpness in his voice left little doubt as to what he wanted to do once they did. “So many people come through Featherport.”
“I can think of one way,” Nikolas said slowly.
*
It didn’t take much pressing to find out the identity of May’s beau, as it turned out. She was plenty eager to talk about him.
He was bold, handsome, striking, charismatic; possessed a winning smile, a charming cap of curls, a dashing coat, smiling eyes, and a number of other qualities as well, most of which Nikolas would’ve rather not heard. All of which he would’ve rather not heard, really. And apparently he curled up like a cat when he was sleepy, and apparently this was adorable. And no, she hadn’t known him for a month or even a week – just a day. And a night. This, she assured him (glowing all the while), had been enough.
Nikolas had known May two months before she’d even let him kiss her.
He did get one useful thing out of her, though, one thing that made it almost worth it to stand there with his nails digging into his palms while she chattered. A name. His name.
Oleander Wood.
And that name was enough, for though Wood was only a boy of eighteen (four years younger than Nikolas – that rankled, too) he was already well known, there were already numerous folk songs and ballads and stories of which he was the hero, or occasionally the villain. He fancied himself a pirate.
“Why?” asked Nikolas, when May was, finally, done.
“Why a pirate? I don’t know. It’s dashing, though.” She rested her head on her hands and gave a sly little smile, the kind she never gave when she was thinking about or talking to or even kissing Nikolas. “He had a hat. With a feather in it.”
He had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming at her. “That’s nice,” he said, politely, once he’d counted to ten half a dozen times. “But you mistook me. Why did you do this?” Had he been anyone else, there would’ve been a note of desperation in his tone, not just in his words. “Wasn’t I enough for you?”
She sighed. “Nikolas,” she said. “You are a good man …” She paused, something flitting over her face. “Well, you’re sweet, anyway, and I’m fond of you. But there’s … there’s an intensity to you.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. What could you say to that? He could think of nothing. “Intensity’s not a good thing?” he said, eventually.
May smiled, sadly. “It would be if it was focused on me,” she said. “But it’s like … you look at what you want, and then you think of nothing else until you have it, and once you have it you look for another thing to want.”
He stared at her, blankly.
“And Olly’s a jerk, I know he is, but he came whirling in all dashing and smiling and at least I could pretend he cared. It was that, even more than the cleverness and the fun and stuff. With you …” She stopped. Shrugged. Repeated, “You’re sweet. I guess. But even when you were focused on me, it was like half your attention was somewhere else!” She snorted. “I mean, you seem more energetic when you’re with Archer than you do with—”
She stopped, suddenly, and gave him an odd look, one he didn’t quite understand. He returned her look with a blank one.
“Are you two …” she started, and then shook her head, firmly. “I’m being ridiculous. Never mind. I like you, alright? You’re sweet. But Olly’s …” She did the smile again, the lazy happy one, and he suddenly couldn’t stand to see her smile, couldn’t stand to hear her talking of the man who’d stolen her, couldn’t stand to be called sweet. He smiled at her, politely, and politely gave the little half-bow that courtesy dictated, and left, politely.
Later, he went out to the hills – his calm, friendly hills, the hills he’d met May on, May who had betrayed him – and lit fires, calmly and methodically, at several carefully calculated points. It had been a dry summer, and the fire roared over the hillside, scorching and scourging. He watched the fire consume all the lovely feathered tassels of fennel, and was disappointed: he’d expected that this, destroying something May loved, would make him feel better, somehow, but instead it just made things worse. Like his rage was the fire rolling across the hills, roaring, burning, unstoppable, consuming all he had and still wanting more.
It rained later that day, which stifled the blaze somewhat. He’d calculated on it. He stayed watching the fire even then, when it was reduced to small, glowing pockets of resentful heat on a landscape that smoked and – still – sent out waves of sickly, furious heat.
Archer found him there and stood by his side in appalled silence for some time, as though unable to quite figure out what to say.
“It’s this Oleander’s fault,” said Nikolas, finally, to save him the trouble. “Obviously. She would’ve still loved me if it hadn’t been for him.”
Archer bit his lip. “Nik…” he said softly.
“He’s a pirate. I thought I might join your ship, if you’d let me.” Nothing but the tilt of his head showed that it was a question. Archer hesitated, then nodded, mutely. “And then I can … I don’t know. Protect the things he’s trying to steal, or protect the people he’s trying to steal from. Cut out his profit, somehow. I can do it.”
“I know you can,” Archer said, and there wasn’t any condescension in his tone, because he did. “And it’s admirable, but … Nikolas, you shouldn’t …”
“I think I’ll go by Hush when I’m a sailor,” Nikolas said, as though he hadn’t hard. “To remind me what I’m doing, so I won’t forget. He is noise and light and life, and those are dazzling, and that’s why she …” He stopped. “He’s noise. But I’m silence. And I can beat him.”
Archer sighed. “I know you can. But you shouldn’t.” He waved his hand at the burnt hills, helpless. The fire hadn’t caught everywhere, there was still plenty of green, but where it had found a foothold, it had destroyed. “Nik, this isn’t like you.”
Nikolas turned to him and rested his hand on his shoulder, which wasn’t something he did often. Archer was touched despite himself. “I … I know. Bear with me, Arch. I’m hurting. I’m not myself, I know that, but … I need this, I need to find him and …”
There was a blazing light in his cobalt eyes. Archer looked away, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets.
“He hurt your sister,” Nikolas said, quietly.
Archer stared out at the landscape, eyes prickling with tears. Then he nodded, once.
And that was that. There was no way out of it once Nikolas had made the decision, really. No going back. Not for him. Never for him.
He would win, or he would die.
*
Hush lost some things along the way. Of course he did. And it took a lot longer than he’d thought it would – he hadn’t expected to be at it for more than a month or two, so when it past four months and time kept on ticking he was taken aback. But that only made him more determined, if anything.
Archer came to stand beside him, as he always did when Hush spent too long staring out at the sea like this. “What troubles you?”
Hush sighed. “Bless doesn’t feel like home anymore. As soon as I step foot on land, it’s like I can feel the dislike. Like the land hates me.”
Archer shrugged. “You should expect that, shouldn’t you? After what you did to the hills.”
“The hills will heal,” said Hush, roughly. “Eventually.”
Archer smiled. “But Bless has a good memory. Maybe you could appeal to the sea instead? The Sea-God might take pity on you. He’s often kind to those without a home.” He nudged Hush, grinning. “Maybe he’d even help you catch Wood, eh?”
“I nearly have him,” said Hush, staring at his fist, clenched on the railing. He ignored the advice – it was meant to be ignored, meant to be light and jovial. With Hush so gloomy, Archer had taken his role as the light-hearted one, the flickering one, entirely to heart. “I’m so close.”
“We’re so close,” Archer corrected, cheerfully. His voice was buoyant; he’d never been entirely happy with this whole business, and the thought that it was nearly over warmed him. “And we are. We truly are!”
They weren’t.
Later – after they’d resorted to piracy, after even being direct rivals of Oleander’s crew had failed – Hush considered the advice more carefully, but he didn’t see how to take it. One couldn’t just ask the Sea-God if he wanted a chat, after all. There were ways to do it, but Hush didn’t know them.
Fortunately, the Sea-God came to him that night in a dream, a strange, world-of-water dream, where the light was blue and twisted, and sound was muffled. All was quiet. Hush liked it.
“Bless has rejected you,” the Sea-God said. He had unnervingly serious eyes, and after just a few seconds of looking into them, Hush looked away. He could almost see how other people found looking into his eyes disconcerting; even Archer sometimes couldn’t hold his gaze, and Archer was the closest friend he had. Sometimes he worried that they were too close, and worried what would happen to Archer if they didn’t beat Oleander soon. Hush’s anger (and, he had to admit, more than a little hurt pride, by now, after so many times being beaten) fuelled him. But it didn’t fuel Archer. Archer could live like this only so long.
All the more reason why he had to beat Oleander, and quickly.
“Yes,” said Hush.
The Sea-God was slight and serious, with too-dark hair, too-bright skin. He looked smudged around the edges, as though he wasn’t quite real, somehow. He tilted his head to one side, and for a second Hush was reminded of May saying he curls up like a cat when he’s sleepy, reminded of Oleander – not that he was ever far from his mind, now – and fought to hold back fierce rage. “And you fight for a just cause?”
“The most just cause,” Hush said softly. “I seek revenge.”
“Not the most just,” the Sea-God corrected him, absent-mindedly, “but certainly the oldest. You could try to be original, you know.”
“Will you help me or won’t you?”
The Sea-God considered him. The twisted blue light of the dream-place made everything look shadowed and strange, but disconcertingly, as though in the alien were traces of what had once been familiar. “You have the ocean in your blood,” he said. “There’s salt in you. I’ll help.”
And all the gentle blue light rushed into him and he was choking, drowning, it was filling his veins with ice and starving his brain of air and he was drowning, drowning, drowning –
Hush woke to Archer shaking him. He rolled over to cough out sour salty water, and even when he was done he remained curled up, gagging, shuddering. That had been terrifying.
But …
He sat up and held out his hand, and willed it, and the water in the jug on the bedside table trembled. Willed harder, so fiercely that it ached, and it trembled more.
“I can beat him,” he said to Archer, with a quiet smile. “With this I can beat him!”
“Yes,” Archer said. “Of course Oleander will flee in terror from wobbly tables.”
Normally Hush might’ve snapped at him for that, but now he chuckled, far too elated to be annoyed at his friend. “You don’t understand. Olly has firewitching – on account of his father being a dragon, or some such thing – and that makes people scared of him, impressed by him. It makes them think that he’s not quite human. And now I have waterwitching, and that means people will think the same thing of me.”
He picked up his sword. It was a short sword, light and convenient, good for quick boarding battles, and its weight was comfortably familiar in his hand; he’d been using it for the better part of … what was it, two years? Three? And he was good at it, because he was good at anything, if he wanted to be.
Experimentally, he tried to recall the feeling as the witchmagic flooded him, as its power drowned him. Blue light danced in front of his vision, nauseating and dizzying, and stronger blue light twined itself around his sword, glowing.
“It means,” said Hush, watching it, trying not to faint, “we’re finally on an even footing.”
“Well,” said Archer, blue light reflected in his shining eyes. “That changes things.”
*
“You’re making a name for yourself now,” Archer said happily. Because Hush couldn’t go on land, reporting on how things were often fell to him, and he liked to visit port now and again anyway. “Nearly as well-known as Oleander himself!”
Hush was alarmed by that. “People know me? They know my name?”
Archer shook his head. “In most of the stories,” he said, “they’re calling you Bluesword.”
Hush stared at him. “… Bluesword.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
Archer gave a philosophical shrug.
“Bluesword? Really? They couldn’t do any better than Bluesword?”
“Better than no name at all, isn’t it?”
Hush frowned.
“And,” Archer added, “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but … there’s rumours that he considers you his rival now. His nemesis, even. Arch-enemy, kind of thing. He seems very enthusiastic about it. Says he’s going to crush you.”
As he’d expected, that made light crackle into Hush’s eyes. “He is, is he?” he said, grimly. “I’ll crush him.”
“That’s always been the plan, hasn’t it?”
*
Hush stared out into the ocean.
He did that a lot, these days. He could understand the sea better, as much as anyone could understand the sea. He could see things that most people couldn’t; see the patterns in the waves and the wind, feel the sea’s heartbeat in the way it shook the ship.
Someone came up behind him all sudden-like and snuggled into him, wrapping their arms around his waist. Hush tensed.
“’s just me,” Archer said, into his ear. “And don’t look at me like that. This was the only way to get your attention.”
“The crew won’t like this,” Hush said, irritably. “There’s plenty of rumours about us without you having to make them into truth, Arch. We can’t afford to have an unhappy crew, not if we’re to beat him. Had you considered, I don’t know, calling me?”
“I called you,” Archer said. “Twice. And then twice more, louder. And then I called you an insufferable landlubberly git. Didn’t work. So here we are.”
For all of Hush’s irritation, he didn’t try to move away or break free, and they stood there like that for a while, staring out to sea.
“We’re nearly there,” Hush said finally.
Archer sighed and rested his head against Hush’s shoulder. “Hush.”
“It’s true! We lost some crewmen last time, yes, but they knew the risks, and – did you see how close that arrow came to his eye? Imagine that! Olly blinded! We could kill him with ease, then. And if we’ve gotten one opportunity, we’ll get another. We’re—”
“I wasn’t saying your name that time, actually,” Archer said. “I was telling you to shut up. Do you know how many times I’ve heard this? You’ve been saying we’re nearly there for almost five years now.”
Hush looked like he was about to snap out an angry retort. Then he stopped. “That long?” he said, surprised.
He could feel Archer sigh again, feel the tickle of Archer’s breath on his neck. He was even twitchier than usual, jittering nervously. “You’re an idiot sometimes, Hush.”
“And an insufferable landlubberly git?”
“Well,” Archer said lightly. “Not landlubberly, I suppose. No one could call you that.” He snuggled in closer, and his voice became more serious. “Hush … I came with you all those years ago for my little sister’s sake, and because there’s little enough to tie me to port, and because some things have to be done. I stayed with you long after there was any real hope of gaining revenge, long after my sister proved herself perfectly capable of looking after the babe on her own. Perfectly happy with it, even. Why do you think I stayed?”
Hush blinked. “Well, because …” He stopped, distracted. No real hope of gaining revenge. “You think that? Truly? That this is hopeless?”
“I’ve always thought that. And even if it wasn’t, it’s pointless.”
“Then …” He couldn’t complete the thought, couldn’t quite understand it. “Maybe you’re an idiot sometimes, too,” he said, hesitantly.
Archer rolled his eyes. “All the time. But that’s not it.”
Hush’s voice was always quiet. Right now, it was all but nonexistent. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying that I followed you for my sister’s sake, and that I stayed for yours,” Archer said, not looking at him.
“… Oh.”
“And I’m saying this because … Hush, we tried. We were bloody valiant, no one could deny that. We tried, and we failed, and … Hush, you could give up now! No one would blame you! No one could! You could just choose to stop here, before it’s too late, and no one would blame you, and I …” His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “I would think no less of you.”
There was silence for a moment, save for the waves.
“Thank you,” Hush said, more coldly than he intended, “but that doesn’t matter. I would.”
Archer took a step away so he could stand beside him, leaning against the railing side by side as they so often had. “You’d be the only one that would.”
Hush shrugged.
“Hush, you could do anything you wanted. You know that, don’t you?” He gave him a sidelong look, testing. “May would take you back, even.”
“May?” said Hush, blankly, and then he remembered. “Oh. May. Yes, this is about May.”
“Maybe to start with it was,” said Archer. “Maybe.”
Hush looked at him, confused.
Archer looked back at him, straightening from his lean - hands in pockets, body shifting restlessly, face serious and, for some reason, apologetic. His Archer. “I’m leaving you.”
Hush stared at him.
Then he said, “This is Olly’s fault. All of it. If I can just—”
Archer sighed, and gave a fond, weary little smile. “Bye, Hush.”
He turned and walked away, towards the boats; they were close enough to shore that he’d get there without trouble, and as for getting home, well, Archer could get himself anywhere.
"I suppose I should’ve seen this coming,” Archer said. He sounded almost amused. “There was only so long I could compete with him before I got tired of it.”
“I’ll find you,” Hush called after him, urgently, and he took a step or two forwards, and then stopped. “Once I’ve killed him, once I’ve proven that I’m – I mean, once I’ve revenged May, once I’ve revenged all these wasted years of ours. I’ll find you.”
“No, love. You won’t.”
*
Six months later it was raining heavily. That was helpful.
It was helpful because he could draw comfort from the rain. Not energy, and certainly not warmth – he was shivering, he knew, and he was drenched to the skin. Not strength, either, because each step was agonising, even with the help of the useful, blank-eyed little golem that he’d been sent. Just comfort, and not very much of that, even. The silvery shimmer of rainfall made the world seem grey and familiar, that was all, flattened out all the confusing colours and people and shapes into something he could understand.
It wasn’t much comfort, but he’d take everything he could get.
The girl had her workshop nearabout in the middle of the city, which was ridiculous. A grand-looking building it was, too, but it was flattened and smudged and drabbed by the rain. Everything was.
The golem helped him inside, and then darted out from under his arm. He collapsed. He’d never been as much without dignity as he was then, sprawled soaking and sorrowful and helpless on the elaborate mosaic floor.
The golem shut the doors with a bang, and then ran to her mistress. It was a happy little golem, that one, a smile permanently on its face; but the smile didn’t reach its eyes, which were two empty pits. You couldn’t give golems eyes. It made them too human.
Hush cursed and tried to push himself up so he was sitting, at least, but it was hard. The accident had left him with very little of his left arm, and very little of his left leg, and left scars down his left side, too. The doctors had told him he’d been lucky to survive. It hadn’t felt that way.
Archer would’ve probably said, “At least you’re right-handed!”
“I thought,” he said – quietly, but loud enough that it echoed, because the space was vast – “that the foremost lifewitch in Bless would be able to show a little more hospitality.”
The girl laughed, and clapped her hands together, briskly. Immediately the lamps glowed into life. Hush eyed them, a little uneasily. Lamps that lit themselves were useful, of course, but there was something unnatural about them. And they didn’t have to look so curst smug about it, either.
“And I would’ve thought,” the girl said, resting her hand on the long-haired head of her servant, “that the second foremost pirate in Bless would be able to show a little more sense. What are you doing here, Bluesword?”
Hush swallowed his pride. This was tricky; pride was something he’d always hung on to, before. “I need your help.”
She raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “That much is obvious.”
“And you’ll give it to me,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Because you hate your brother as much as I do.”
She looked startled at that. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “Olly’s a jerk, sure, and he hasn’t spoken to me or Riff for, like, a gazillion years, but hate? You don’t hate your family.”
“Really? Why hasn’t he spoken to you, then?”
A shrug. “He’s been busy.”
“There’s another motive, then, if hate doesn’t suit you. If you make me all shipshape again, I can go back to fighting him, and then he can beat me, and then he’ll be free of this obsession of his with me and things’ll go back to normal.”
“A little conceited, aren’t you? To think he’s obsessed with you?”
It was his turn to shrug. “I’ve done my research. And what else would keep the famously charming Oleander Wood too busy to visit his beloved little sister?”
She frowned at him. “If you’ve done your research, you know perfectly well that Olly wasn’t exactly the best brother to have even before you came along and he decided to fall in love with you.”
Hush gave a strangled croak. “He what?”
“Or fall in hate with you. Whatever. The end result’s the same.”
Hush collected himself. It was a difficult thing to do, here, crippled in this grandest of places. He whispered some witching and held out his hand, discretely, and the water that had been dripping off him slid up onto his palm and settled there, a comforting coolness. “I’ve done my research, yeah. So I know. I know what it was like to grow up the most talented magewitch Bless has ever seen … and still always be overshadowed by your idiot of a brother, your brother who everyone loved, who the people made songs for even when it was you who gave them protection and kindness and useful things, even when all he did was rob them.”
She stared at him for a while. She was quite pretty, this Rome, even if she insisted on dressing in traditional witchgarb, which took away from her prettiness some. Her curling horns gleamed in the light of the golem-lamps. Eventually she said, “Olly’s not an idiot.”
“Oh, I know that. Really. But it’d be nice to see him humiliated,” Hush said. “Just once, it’d be nice to see him lose. Wouldn’t it?”
Rome pursed her lips, then glanced at the golem who still stood obediently by her side. “Get my clay, Piper.”
The golem trilled a reply that Hush couldn’t understand, and skipped away.
“This is on the understanding,” Rome said, “that all you’ll do is beat him. I agree that Olly could use beating, and,” she snorted, “he could certainly use the reminder that, yes, there really are people other than him. But don’t hurt him, Bluesword. And swear to me you won’t kill him.”
“I swear on the ocean,” Hush said, “that I won’t kill your brother.”
Rome nodded, and gave a bright, sudden smile. There was a golemic quality to that, somehow. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Then I’ll fix you.”
And she did.
Later, as he flexed and twisted his new clay fingers – impossible to tell from real ones, even for him – he remembered the meeting and smiled. It was the smile he’d never lost, the grave, solemn smile that promised to whisper secrets, the smile with its own inexplicable charm.
He had no intention of killing Olly, because killing was too good for Olly, Olly who had cost him everything. He had something much better in mind.
He’d break him. |
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And I'm looking forward to hearing more about the other characters' quirks as well (like breathing fire? That is immeasurably awesome for some reason... on the same level as eyepatches and airships). BUT YES. ^_____^
