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The manor house is darker than most of the other buildings in Port Damali, its walls adorned in austere shades of black and red, and the wrought-iron gates barring their entry a foreboding grey. Two high spires mark either end of the tall building, lending the illusion of a small-scale castle to its silhouette. Even amongst the rest of the manors in the district - the richest one, where Fjord would never have dared step foot during his sailor days - the building is ostentatious, and Fjord tugs on his cravat, checking for the fifth time this afternoon that it’s still sitting straight.
“Sure looks like the kind of place a creep with a secret torture dungeon would live,” Beau remarks - sarcastic, but Fjord still hears the shiver of revulsion in her voice. The thought of someone as sweet as Twiggy spending months, years, locked up in a place like this… it’s enough to make him sick.
“Well, should we see if the illustrious Sir Cadigan is in?”
Beau nods, then goes to collect Caduceus, who’s wandered off to examine the lichen that’s grown from a nearby tree into the bars of the fence surrounding the house.
Thankfully, Jester’s forged letter gets them tidely through the guards at the gates. They’re led into a small patio, as they await a decision on whether they’ll be allowed into the manor itself. Once they’re inside - if they get inside - he won’t be Fjord anymore, but ‘Captain Leofric Janelle”. (A group naming decision, made without much input from Fjord.) Beau and Caduceus will become his associates, here to present their fine wares and rare artifacts to the most esteemed collector in all of Port Damali.
More guards patrol by, and Fjord watches them, notes their numbers, and goes over the plan again in his head.
Convince Sir Cadigan we’re interested in becoming purveyors for collectors like himself. Find out if he knows anything about the book. Get an invitation to the next event at the Exalted Collection Auction House, or find out how. Caduceus, make sure he’s not bullshitting us. Beau, if something goes wrong, punch Sir Cadigan in the nose, then run like fucking hell.
…That last bit could probably still use a bit of work, he muses.
After fifteen tense minutes, they’re ushered through the wide double doors into a foyer of some kind, and then an enormous drawing room. Every spare inch of each wall is lined with pedestals, bearing items of all shapes and sizes: dusty tomes, cloaks inlaid with fine filigrees, ancient cores of metal that even Fjord, with his limited grasp of history, can guess must date back to the Age of Arcanum. Each plush chair and velvet-lined couch within the room is perfectly arranged to provide the best viewing angle for a subset of the pedestals, with none blocking the sightline of the others. There’s no door at the other side of the chamber, but instead, what looks like a corridor that leads to a wider space beyond.
A servant comes in and hands them each a glass of some amber liquid that smells nauseating bitter (which is to say, expensive) and as he leaves - with the tray still balanced elegantly on his arm, despite its emptiness - an impeccably dressed man enters the room.
He’s younger than what Fjord imagined. Something about Twiggy’s account of Sir Cadigan had fixed in his mind the image of the proprietor of the Driftwood Asylum - maybe it was the descriptions of wanton cruelty, or the tendency to keep children locked up in highly uncomfortable quarters. That man was in his sixties, balding and thin, but Sir Cadigan seems only a decade older than Fjord - maybe mid-forties, at most. His short brown locks are still untouched by grey, coifed and teased to an elegant wave above his brow, and his body is trim, though the tight lines of his gold-threaded jacket speak of muscle lingering beneath.
“Welcome, Captain,” he says, in a lightly accented voice that rumbles at about the same timbre as Fjord’s. “I’ve been told you come bearing gifts? Or rather, merchandise for trade?” Cadigan smiles, all aristocratic charm, and offers a hand. “I’m always happy to make new acquaintances.” He pays Beau and Caduceus no mind, lending Fjord his whole attention in a way that he might find flattering, if he wasn’t already so on edge.
Fjord takes the hand, and the grip that meets his is bracing.
“As you can see, I’ve amassed quite a collection of treasures in my time. I do hope what you’ve come to show me meets the standard of what you see before you.” The grip tightens, and Fjord returns the smile through the crack of bruised bones.
He may not look much like the Asylum proprietor, but Fjord knows a bully when he sees one.
“Of course, Sir Cadigan. I wouldn’t dare waste your time with anything but the best.”
“Good. Then we’ll get along well.” The affable demeanor returns as the hand withdraws. “But before we begin, you must introduce me to your companions.”
“Right.” Fjord clears his throat. “Well, this is my first mate-”
“Beau,” she cuts in, sticking out her own hand, and Fjord sighs internally. He didn’t have high hopes that anyone else would stick by their pseudonyms, but he did have hopes. At least the danger should be minimal - he’s the only one who could theoretically be known by name in Port Damali.
Cadigan reaches out to accept the handshake, with considerably less enthusiasm than he did for Fjord, but the motion halts halfway to meeting. His eyes slide over Beau to light on Caduceus, who stands - for once, unhunched under the high ceiling - by her side.
“Now, who is this fascinating creature?” He turns away from Beau entirely, and she frowns, as her hand drops back to her side.
“Caduceus,” he replies, with an easy smile, “Caduceus Clay,” and Cadigan doesn’t even wait to see if Caduceus will offer a handshake before he reaches out and grasps his hand, pulling him forward. Fjord shifts on the spot, abruptly uncomfortable, as Cadigan pulls the hand up to the light and lowers his head, as if to kiss the back of Caduceus’s knuckles. But at the last second, he pauses, then turns the hand over and teases the fingers apart, running his own over the soft fur that borders Caduceus’s palm.
“What intriguing musculature,” Cadigan murmurs, and there’s something in his eyes that’s almost… hungry, as he continues to maneuver Caduceus’s hand back and forth. While Caduceus makes no effort to remove himself from the touch, looking more perplexed than putoff by Cadigan’s inspection, Fjord is seized by the inexplicable urge to drag Caduceus away from the man. He can’t read Cadigan’s intentions - whether this some sort of bizarre flirtation, or something else entirely - but whatever it is, it makes Fjord’s stomach twist: to see Cadigan touching Caduceus in such an intimate way, without so much as a by your leave.
…Which is funny, because he’s never thought of hands as particularly intimate before. Maybe it was just Caduceus’s hands, that remind him of healing warmth and a boost off the ground after a hard fight. His are big, dwarfing Cadigan’s by inches as those unfamiliar fingers continue to roam over Caduceus’s knuckles and down to the wrist bone.
Over Cadigan’s head, Beau catches Fjord’s eye and mouths what the fuck? He shrugs, trying to convey with his eyes that a) he doesn’t know, and b) Beau should try to keep her cool, for now. Their only mission is to find a way to that book, before someone else does, and discovers what dark secrets lie within its moldy text. Gods know he’s endured his own share of unwanted groping, enough to last him a lifetime, but they always came out ahead for it. Where would the Nein be, if he hadn’t done what he did for Avantika… Maruo...
His stomach flips again. The reassurance isn’t as comforting as he hoped; not when it’s someone else making that bargain. Not when it’s Caduceus, who Fjord isn’t convinced would even know how to interpret an advance, blatant or not.
“I’ve never met a creature like you before,” says Cadigan, finally releasing Caduceus’s hand and stepping back. Fjord feels like he can breathe again. “What do they call you?”
“My name, generally,” Caduceus answers, and Cadigan’s face twists in displeasure.
“Your kind, I mean.”
“Oh! Well, you weren’t very specific. I’m a firbolg.”
“Fascinating,” Cadigan says again, tapping his chin, and still staring at Caduceus intently. Fjord allows himself a moment of relief, hoping that’s the only explanation for Cadigan’s strange behaviour. He’d certainly never met a firbolg in all his time in Port Damali. He’s not even sure if any tribes live on the Menagerie Coast, period; there aren’t exactly an abundance of forests to choose from. Maybe he was just intrigued by the sight of a new race, like Fjord was when they met Pumat Sol for the first time. That could be all it was.
Still, as Cadigan leads them around the room, showing off all his pedestals with the sort of purposeful disinterest that tells Fjord he does, in fact, cares very deeply what they think of his collection, Fjord still notices the man drifting closer to Caduceus than he strictly needs to be, and Fjord finds himself looking for excuses to interject himself between the two of them.
He asks question after question about golden suits of armor and ugly pencil sketches, barely hearing the answers by the fourth long winded monologue of subsequent explanation, but at least if Cadigan’s compulsive need to show off his wealth of riches is fed, it keeps his eyes off Caduceus: off his gait, his hair, the lichen dusting the top of his breastplate, each of which Cadigan leers at greedily in turn. It’s like he’s cataloguing his appearance, writing up the details of his body in his mind for later perusal.
Fjord is about ready to crawl out of his skin by the time they reach the adjoining room, where they find larger installations on display: sculptures and frescos, painted hobby horses and staffs with crystalline glyphs running down the smooth wood. After Cadigan is satisfied they’ve all fully absorbed the grandeur of the possessions on display, he leads the three of them to a table at the center of the room, spreading his hands wide over its empty expanse.
“So, now that you know the quality of the things I trade in… what have you come to show me?”
Beau, having been given temporary custody of the bag of holding for this mission, begins to pull out their offerings. Fjord winces to see the whip laid down, remembering how it saved Beau’s life only a few months before, but they haven’t got many magical possessions they’re willing to trade. Yasha couldn’t be persuaded to give up either of her greatswords, nor Caleb any of the more valuable or interesting books they’d collected along the way, and so they had to make do with what was left: a smattering of odds and ends, some rarer than others, and hopefully something tempting enough in the mismatched lot to catch their target’s attention.
Cadigan takes his time examining each piece, passing over most, but humming in a pleased way when he gets to the whip. “What an interesting collection of treasures you’ve brought me, Captain. How, may I ask, did you acquire this assortment?”
“I’ve spent my life on the high seas. We come across all manner of strange and interesting things in our travels.”
“All obtained honourably, I’m sure.” Cadigan smirks, and Fjord returns the knowing smile.
“Oh, of course. What do you take us for? Pirates?”
“Hmph. I wouldn’t dare to presume.” Cadigan picks up the whip, and gives it an experimental crack. The lash is swift and precise, and Fjord is not at all comfortable with how easily Cadigan holds the pommel in his hand: like he’s accustomed to wielding weapons of that sort. “How you come by your good fortune is no business of mine; my only concern is what fortune it brings to me.” He sets the whip back on the table, and pushes it towards Fjord. “Now this, I like. What’s your price?”
“Twelve thousand,” he answers swiftly. They’ve done their research - planned ahead, for once. He knows it’s overasking by a mile, but bargaining down is part of the game. Asking for less would be an insult, and a dead giveaway that they’re not who they seem.
Sure enough, Cadigan’s grin widens at Fjord’s proposal.
“Why, Captain, you must take me for a fool! This is not worth more than six.”
They go back and forth, haggling through rakish smiles, until they settle on a sum that pleases both of them - and honestly, surprises Fjord in its generousity. Their only aim was an avenue into Cadigan’s world, so turning a tidy profit in the process is an unexpected bonus.
“Nothing else tempts your fancy?” Fjord asks, when the money has been tossed into Beau’s bag and a servant has taken the whip away.
“From these? No.” He sneers at the rest of the items on the table, as though their mere presence in his sight is personally offensive. “But there is something else that’s caught my eye.”
His gaze slides from Fjord’s face, passing over Beau without pause to land on Caduceus once more. Fjord and Beau slowly turn as well, following his gaze.
“Hmm?” Caduceus asks, once he realizes where the attention in the room is now focused. He glances down along his body, searching for whatever Cadigan was referring to. “If you’d inquiring about my armor, I’m afraid I’d rather not part with it.”
Cadigan laughs, the light sound tinged with something darker beneath, something that sets Fjord’s teeth on edge. “Yes, I’m quite decided, Captain. I must have him.”
“Wait just a fuc-”
Fjord holds up a hand to Beau, staying her rage, which is a mite hypocritical considering the fury that roils in his own stomach.
“Sir Cadigan,” he says, slow through gritted teeth, “just so we’re clear, what do you mean, ‘have him’?”
“For my collection,” Cadigan clarifies, grin never slipping, even as his eyes narrow into something sharper. “Your companion is a unique treasure, indeed.” He waves a hand down the length of Caduceus’s body, all the while only looking at Fjord, as though Caduceus is merely another item on display. “The colouration, the facial structure, the hair. Nothing like what I’ve seen before: a truly quality specimen.”
“Ah,” says Caduceus, and Fjord is relieved to see a note of anger in his eyes as well. At least he’s cottoned on to what’s happening… though, he remembers, Caduceus grew up on the border of Shadycreek Run. Fjord shouldn’t be surprised that this would be part of his, albeit limited, world experience. “So you mean to buy me, then?”
“Come now,” Cadigan says to Fjord, still ignoring Caduceus, and the fuming Beau between the two of them. “No need to be coy in this house. We both know that men of the sea don’t acquire riches like these without dabbling in the most valuable cargo of all. Still, I understand your hesitance. It seems you’re quite partial to him - and after all, who wouldn’t be?” Cadigan laughs again, and Fjord tightens his fists, nails biting into his palms. “But let me assure you, my offer will more than assuage any lingering guilt over the trade.”
There’s a clinking of metal at the corridor to their rear. Fjord turns his head, and spies the shadow of armor and halberds, waiting just outside of sight. At his side, Beau stiffens as well.
“I simply won’t take no for an answer,” Cadigan says, crossing his arms, as though the matter has already been decided.
“Sir Cadigan, I, uh- I think you’ve misunderstood the situation.”
In his panic, he takes less time than he should to consider what his next words should be. A minute later, he’ll be kicking himself for not saying something like ‘we aren’t in the business of selling people’, or ‘here’s my alternative offer’, or even, in a more Beau-like tenor, ‘fuck off, you enormous creep’.
Instead, what comes out of Fjord’s mouth is, “We’re married.”
Beau’s mouth falls open.
“Excuse me?” Sir Cadigan’s eyes narrow, as Fjord… freezes in place.
What the fuck did I just say?
“Uh,” Fjord clears his throat. “Yeah… yup. For just over five years now. Right, umm… darling?” He nearly chokes on the endearment - too syrupy for his true accent, but he doesn’t have Vandran to call on now - staring at Caduceus with wild eyes and trying to deliver the subliminal equivalent of a foot-stomp through nothing but rapid blinking.
Please, for the love of everything holy, just go with me on this.
“...Yes,” Caduceus says slowly, not taking his eyes off Fjord, and he feels a flush begin to creep up the back of his neck. “That’s right. Five years.”
“So,” says Fjord, gulping down the rapidly pooling saliva in his mouth. “You can see why your offer, no matter how generous, is out of the question.” He moves to Caduceus’s side, Beau mouthing ever more vehemently what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck as he blocks her from Cadigan’s view with his body. Fjord slings his arm around Caduceus’s waist, in what he hopes comes off as a protective manner. But he’d forgotten about the height difference, and so his arm lands somewhere more in the vicinity of Caduceus’s bony hip. Fjord has to angle his hand down so that it ends up resting on Caduceus’s thigh, rather than… anywhere else.
Damn, he’s still skinny.
Fjord waits with bated breath to see what Cadigan’s response will be. He can feel just as much tension radiating from Caduceus. They can fight their way out if they need to, but he saw at least ten guards on their way in, and he’s betting there’s a whole host of magical enchantments littered throughout the manor as well. If he thundersteps his way out, he can only take one of them with him. Their escape would be far from a sure thing, if this turns bad.
“...I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.” Cadigan sighs deeply, then unfolds his arms from his chest and waves off the guards in the corridor. “But I wouldn’t take a prize that another man has already claimed.”
Fjord’s grip tightens on Caduceus’s hip, pulling him even closer to his side, until they’re pressed together from calf to waist. Far from abating, the disgust in his throat only deepens. He hates that his gut instinct was right: that this is the kind of man that would only respect Caduceus’s autonomy, if he thought he already belonged to someone else. That Sir Cadigan views marriage as possession, at its core, and he quietly wonders if the man has a spouse, and how unhappy they must be in their union, if he does.
At least it’ll be over soon, he thinks, keenly aware that the sweat on his palms is probably soaking into Caduceus’s thin shirt. They’ll finish up their transaction, and then he can apologize to Caduceus for dragging him into such a mortifying lie once they’re safely back at the inn-
“That being the case, I insist you stay for dinner! I’d be fascinated to hear the story of how you two met.”
“Same here,” says Beau, not overtly amused, but definitely goading, and if they were alone he’d aim a kick at her shin. There’s a time for teasing, and Fjord isn’t feeling it right now.
“We really should be headed out soon,” Fjord hedges, but to his surprise, a heavy hand lands on the small of his back. He does his best not to jolt forward as the hand slides to rest at his own waist, feeling the heat of blood rise from his neck to his cheeks. Gods, Beau is seeing all of this. He’s never going to live it down.
“I think that sounds lovely,” Caduceus says, far more pleasant than anyone talking to the person who’d just tried to buy them ought to be. “We had wanted to ask you about some of the other collections in town… maybe even the auction house. Isn’t that right... dear?” His hand gently squeezes Fjord’s side, and Fjord absolutely cannot look his direction, for fear of combusting from sheer embarrassment. His entire face is burning, and he prays to Melora, or anyone else who’s listening, that his dusky skin will hide the blush.
“Excellent!” Sir Cadigan claps his hands together, draped in friendliness once more. “If you give me a few moments, I’ll make the arrangements.”
Cadigan leads them back to the first room and bids them adieu at the door. The moment the heavy wood closes, Beau rounds, and unleashes the words she’s been bottling up for almost an hour.
“Dude. What the fuck?”
“I don’t know!” hisses Fjord. “I panicked, alright!”
“...But it did seem to have the desired effect,” Caduceus muses softly. “I suppose we’ll just have to maintain the pretence, until we’ve gotten the information we need?”
“...Fuck.” Fjord scrubs a hand over his face, and Beau pushes her hands into her hair.
“Fuck is right. No offense, but you two have got the worst game I’ve ever seen. You both have ‘never been laid’ written all over you... Avantika notwithstanding,” Beau amends.
“Right,” grumbles Fjord, “No offense,” while Caduceus nods, apparently agreeing with Beau’s assessment.
“And now you’re supposed to convince this guy that you’ve been shacked up and oh so deeply in love for what, five years now?” Beau laughs incredulously. “We’re so screwed. Forget getting the information, we’re going to have axes in our heads before dessert.”
“I don’t have much experience in the realm of romance,” Caduceus concedes. “But I trust you, Fjord. Your plans are usually solid. If you think we can pull this off, I’ll follow your lead.”
Fjord laughs nervously. Calling it a plan, rather than a hasty decision made in the heat of the moment and immediately regretted, is incredibly generous. But they’re in too deep to back out now. “Right,” he says. “At least we have time to-”
-get our story straight, is what he would have said, if Sir Cadigan hadn’t reentered at that very moment.
“The dining room is being prepared. If you’d all follow me.” He ushers them out into the hall, and at the last second Fjord grabs Caduceus’s hand, clinging for dear life, both to the illusion of romance they’re trying to maintain, and… honestly, to the feeling he’s not alone in the deception, for once.
(He’s so used to being the one out front, wearing a stranger’s face as well as he can while the others hang back, that it’s almost comforting, that there’s someone else at his side, equally complicit in his success or failure.)
They follow Cadigan through long, twisting hallways, with not a blank segment of wall left unadorned, until at least they come to an elaborate dining room. The long table is made of a finely carved wood - mahogany, maybe - and set for twelve, though there are only the four of them in total. Between the arched ceiling and gaudy tapestries, the whole room feels incredibly overdone for their little dinner party - which seems in keeping with the rest of the manor’s design.
Cadigan takes his place at the head of the table, and the servants guide them to their respective seats. Beau is given a place at Cadigan’s right hand, while the servants gesture for Caduceus to take the seat to his left. Fjord quickly jumps in the way, grabbing the back of the chair in front of him, the one that he’s pretending he doesn’t notice a different servant is indicating as his own. “Allow me,” he says, and pulls back the chair, nodding meaningfully at Caduceus.
“Thank you.” Caduceus takes the seat, and Fjord pushes his chair in for him, then takes the one at Cadigan’s side, which puts him right between the man and Caduceus.
Their host goes quite purplish when he’s annoyed, Fjord notes, and he smiles innocently at Cadigan before reaching forward and taking a sip from his newly refreshed goblet.
They stagger their way through small talk as the first course is served - roast pheasant confit, which means exactly nothing to Fjord, but is delicious. Fjord makes certain not to reveal too much about what he already knows about Cadigan, while he asks the kind of open questions that leave the man plenty of room to self-aggrandize. He also makes sure to slip a few of the blistered peas from his plate onto the side of Caduceus’s salad - offered in place of the pheasant, on his request - while Cadigan is watching. That’s what couples do, right? Share food?
When Fjord looks down again, he notices that a few slices of radish have migrated to his plate as well.
While he knows it’s all part of the ruse, and done on Fjord’s own initiative, it’s hard not to be a little touched that Caduceus remembers how much he likes radishes. They’re the kind of thing that you don’t usually get on a ship - fresh, and crisp, and crunchy when you bite into them, unlike the salt-encrusted hardtack and petrified raisins he swears he chipped more than one tooth on in his youth. He spears a piece, and smiles gratefully at Caduceus, the fondness in his expression far from an act.
From across the table, Beau coughs into her napkin, which Fjord imagines might have been hiding a gag, but mercifully keeps her mouth shut.
Next comes the soup, and the end to Fjord’s brief reprieve, in which he’d almost convinced himself their little physical gestures would be enough to get them through.
“Now that we’re all comfortable,” Cadigan takes another deep sip from his wine, “I’d love to hear how such an unlikely pairing came to be together!” Fjord opens his mouth, ready to jump in with the half-remembered tale of how his former boatswain met his Marqueesian wife, but for once, Cadigan seems more interested in what Caduceus has to say than Fjord. “Do tell!” he implores, raising his glass to Caduceus. “How did a ship’s captain end up with such a fascinating creature as you?” Fjord doesn’t miss the ordering of the sentence, the way the possessive clause still belongs to him, and he takes a sip of his own wine to drown out the frustration that’s threatening to escape from his throat.
He should be used to this by now - people talking down to Caduceus. Hell, even King Dwendal had no time for him, even after the Nein single handedly delivered his capital city from ruin. But it still rankles him to his core. Caduceus is incredible, one of the most incredible people Fjord’s ever met. If people would spend even a little time getting to know him, instead of just making assumptions, they’d see what Fjord sees.
Even though the question wasn’t addressed to him, he doesn’t see the harm in laying a reassuring hand on Caduceus’s for moral support. This could be the moment they crash and burn - improvisational skills aren’t Caduceus’s strength (nor, apparently, Fjord’s, if their current situation is any indication) - but whatever he says, Fjord will have to play along.
“Oh, well. It’s a bit of a long story.”
“And we have plenty of time!” And drink, Fjord thinks, as Cadigan downs the last of his glass of wine and calls for another. That their host is a lush doesn’t come as a surprise - the man is one grand personification of overindulgence - but Fjord hopes they can still turn that detail to their advantage. Loose lips, and all that.
“Well,” Caduceus starts, “we met in a graveyard. I was very lost, you see, and Fjord helped me find my way out.”
“Fjord?” Cadigan asks curiously, and Fjord winces as he realizes Caduceus’s blunder. Of course, he would have been the only one to remember to use a fake name, and of course it came back to bite them in the ass. “I thought your name was Leofric.”
“A term of endearment,” Caduceus responds, with barely a moment of hesitation. “In my tribe, it’s common to give a new name to a loved one, one that reminds you of the person. My… husband was my passage to the sea, where I found my family again, and so, ‘Fjord’ he became.”
Fjord’s heart swells with something almost like pride. He’s (almost) certain Caduceus is lying through his teeth about that ‘tribal practice’, but Cadigan eats up the lie, nodding vigourously.
“Of course,” he muses, words beginning to slur together like the bed of seaweed beneath the dish of salmon that Fjord only just notices has been placed in front of him. “What an odd tradition - but darling, in its own way.”
“I think so.”
“So, what next? Did he sweep you off to the sea, and then off your feet?”
Caduceus chuckles through his nose. “Not exactly. We’re both stubborn, and thickheaded, and it took me far too long, to recognize what… I was missing.” The barest of hesitations, just enough that Fjord notices, but not so long he can parse what it means.
Caduceus’s hand has started to shake, he realizes - probably with nerves - and Fjord gives it a tiny squeeze, hoping his message is clear. You’re doing great, keep going.
“I think it was seeing my family again, that did it. I was alone for so long, I forgot what love looked like, until I saw it in front of me once more.”
Fjord swallows again, a whole new emotion flooding his chest. Seeing Caduceus’s parents had been a revelation for him as well. Two happy parents, embracing their children: it had never been part of the fabric of his reality. A big family, with so much love to spare, and he had wanted-
He had wanted.
“I asked him to marry me, that night, beneath the altar,” Caduceus concludes. “I shouldn’t- I couldn’t wait. I knew what I wanted, and it wasn’t to be alone anymore. It was… well. You see now.”
There’s a hint of self-recrimination in Caduceus’s words, something Fjord can’t decide is embarrassment, shame, or worry that his lies weren’t good enough. Though… did Caduceus really lie? The part about falling in love with Fjord, sure, but the rest? It’s pretty much what happened. Which, honestly, is miles ahead of whatever lie Fjord would have offered. And judging by the unexpected softness in Sir Cadigan’s bleary eyes, that spark of honesty did the trick.
“What a story,” he says, almost dreamy in his wine-drunk stupor. “Captain, you are a fortunate man indeed.”
“Don’t I know it,” Fjord agrees, finding it far too easy to fall into grinning at Caduceus, silently congratulating him for a job well done as he squeezes his hand again. It’s only Beau’s swift kick to his ankle that reminds him they still have a job to do. “But enough on that. We think that the world of procurement is our calling, and we came to you because we know you’re the best in the business...”
Two more courses, another bottle of wine, and several tedious conversations filled with blatant flattery later, and they have their invitation to the next event at the Exalted Collection Auction House. With their mission accomplished, they bid a tipsy Sir Cadigan goodnight, and make their escape back into the night air.
Beau is uncharacteristically silent for most of the walk back, which is very frustrating, because Fjord was planning on using her as a buffer for the more awkward silence between him and Caduceus. That silence between them only grows more heavy with each step back towards the inn. What had seemed almost easy in the cool glow of Cadigan’s chandeliers returns to being mortifying, now that they’re back in the real world. Fjord whistles with his hands in his pockets, trying to forget how strangely well they fit into one a little larger than his own.
The rest of the Nein clamour around them when they return, and Beau takes on the task of delivering the good news. She even skips over the bit about his and Caduceus’s ruse, which is… oddly considerate of her.
At least, that’s what he thinks, until she unveils the reason for her previous silence: she was saving up her ammunition, for one last deadly salvo.
“Oh, and I almost forgot to mention - Fjord and Caduceus got married.”
Beau sits back, smirking, as the room devolves into chaos around them.
“It was just one night!” he cries above the ruckus, to no avail.
“Yup,” smirks Beau. “Until that auction - you know, the one that was the whole point of tonight - where Sir Cadigan is definitely going to be, and is definitely going to expect your husband to be on your arm. Face it, Fjord, as long as we’re in town, you guys are hitched for good.”
Fjord buries his face in his hands.
She’s right, and he hates that she’s right.
This isn’t over yet.