Chapter Text
She comes to him shrouded in moonlight, creaking wooden boards beneath her bare heels, phantom fingertips on his brow. Her laughter is so soft as to be lost beneath the rhythmic rush of the sea, the muffled noises of the port beyond his window, the quiet settling of the ship all around him.
“I see ye keep poor company when yer away from home,” she teases, warm breath stirring the fine locks of hair near his ear. “There’s a street full o’ women in the pleasure quarter all but beggin’ ye to come n’ try their wares. Yet here ye are, alone in yer cabin with naught for company save yer two hands and a piss poor memory.”
“Believe what you will, madam,” he breathes back, syllables escaping his parched lips with each exhale, “but I long ago found myself under siren’s spell. I’m afraid there’s no cure.”
“Tsk, tsk. Poor thing.” She is so small, so slight, that the mattress barely dips where she curls up alongside him. Her slender leg slides over his hip, his thigh fitting easily between hers, fingers slotting together until her palm becomes his. She pushes the hem of his shirt aside, pausing to feel the rapid beat of his heart before rising to trace the angular shape of his collarbone.
“I miss you.” She would recoil at hearing such a sentiment, no matter how earnestly spoken. The very notion of being wanted is something foreign to her, laughable at best and mocking at worst. But here, in the privacy of his luxurious brocade bedcurtains, he is free to address her without fear of putting her on her guard. And she listens to him, bright eyes gleaming with affection and silent understanding. “I miss you so much.”
“Is that so? I’m surprised, seeing as ye never call me when yer abroad.” He chuckles at the thought, shaking his head sadly. The last few times he’s been bold enough—silly enough—to try the linkshell he carries with him, the result is an ear-piercing jumble of static noise and hijacked conversation. It’s been two long months since he last heard her voice, and it will be two more before he hears it again, at the very least.
“Besides, ye haven’t thought o’ me in weeks.” That’s a lie. He thinks of her every day, if not like this than in the abstract. But that’s not what she means, not exactly. “Something must have happened,” she remarks, tracing idle patterns on his chest. Her nails tickle the stippled hair growing back from his last aesthetician appointment, dipping occasionally into the well of his sternum before starting again.
“I saw something that reminded me of you.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Earlier today, in the markets….” His bed in the cabin is smaller than the one at the Seventh Sage, but still large enough that it can fit several well-stuffed pillows. He rolls towards the wall, reaching for one he tries to refrain from using overmuch. The pillow is cool against his cheeks as he buries himself in feathery softness, breathing deeply and searching for any lingering traces of her scent.
“There was a silk merchant unloading new wares,” he says, half muffled into the pillow and half in his mind. “One of the skeins was this beautiful shade of red, reminiscent of what you seem to favor.” It ripples in his mind’s eye, a shimmering waterfall of sanguine hues held aloft by the ocean breeze. The keen merchant had noticed his gaze and offered it to him, unrolling it to show off the beautiful pattern painted on its surface. An aimless, yet poignant pattern of soft curves and sharp angles, stark white on a bleeding background. In an instant he was reminded of her, of the white tattoo on her brow.
“Aye?” Another verbal nudge, fingers tangling in the wiry curls beneath his navel.
“I wanted to buy it for you, to show you—” He cannot bring himself to finish. A ridiculous notion, borne of equally ridiculous desires. She had no more use for a skein of silk than he had for a crate of cooking supplies. But it was less the practical aspect and more the emotions it invoked, the joy it would bring him to place even a scrap of the cloth in her lap and watch her confusion become admiration. To see her mouth purse in a little O of surprise, eyes widening before crinkling in utter delight at the sensation of silk against her calloused fingers. He wanted her to laugh at him for the frivolity of it all while still finding pleasure in the gift. He wanted to watch her rub it against her cheek, rolling her eyes when he—quite rightly—compared it to the smooth expanse of her inner thigh. He is certain that, should he compare them right then and there, he would find the fabric’s texture lacking.
“Oh, how I miss you,” he says yet again, a desperate sound torn from the depths of his aching chest. He clutches the pillow to his breast, a poor substitute for the woman in his mind. His hands slide down the curve of her waist, palming the ample flesh of the thighs he so admires before lifting to count her ribs one by one. “Do you not miss me too, when I am gone?” She doesn’t answer, for he does not know what the answer would be. She draws him in for a kiss instead, nuzzling into his neck with a blissful little sigh as he dips a wandering hand between her legs.
“Dearest,” he groans, feeling how wet she is for him, “my darling—” Things he would never say aloud, even if he were free to. They are sweet nothings in every sense of the word, borrowed pleasantries. They belong in another era, some alternate world where he never chose to leave the safety of his gilded cage, never donned the pirate’s mantle and learned of their many unspoken rules.
No intimacy, no loose ends. Heartstrings could easily strangle a man, should they become entangled with another’s.
The knowledge does not dull the pain. It only mislays the source, guilty pangs that seem to mock him with the understanding that he is the careless one, the foolish one. In over his head, drowning, mired in his hopeless love while she continues on in the same blithe fashion as always. Their trysts are just that—something trivial to fill the time and provide mutual satisfaction. She holds no true regard for him; she’s better than that.
But in this dream he has built for himself, he can believe. He can fool himself into thinking that she is just as bad as he is, perhaps even worse, for she clings to him and cards her fingers through his hair. She opens herself to him, whispering broken fragments of endearments as she takes him in hand, stroking him to the choppy rhythm of the waves. And when it’s over, she holds him tenderly as he sobs his release against her shoulder.
Never mind that it would never work, either emotionally or logistically. Their differences are too great, both in size and disposition. But it works now, and it’s what he needs, and it’s more than worth the guilt and that grief that come after.
“I love you.” Despite everything, it’s the truest thing he’s said tonight.
“I know.” Tired lips find the hollow of his throat and linger there, breathing him in. “Sweet man.”
“I wish….”
“Shhh….” The barest whisper, the gathering of moonbeams as she prepares to leave. Even like this, she won’t stay. “Sleep now.”
He reaches out for her, unsure of his own intentions, and finds air.